xiii.
For I'd be welcome, then, where'er thou art,
And gladden thee, and play as prompt a part
As Romeo play'd with Juliet at his breast.
Who loves not love, who hates to be caress'd,
Is Nature's bane; and I'll denounce him, too.
For he's a foe to all that's just and true
In earth and Heaven; and when he seeks a joy,
His quest shall fail,—his hand shall miss the clue.
xiv.
We know these things. We know how dark a word
May let in light, and how the smallest bird
May mix the morn with music till we think
The fire-lit air is wine for us to drink,—
And every drop salvation,—every sound
A Muse's whisper,—all the flower-full ground
A fancy-carpet fit for knights to tread
When on their way to Arthur's Table Round.
xv.
A peevish fool is he who will not raise
His hands in prayer, among the danger-days
That come to all; for he, when waxen old,
Will search the past and find it callous-cold;
And all the future, too, will freeze for him.
Nor shall he weep aright when tears bedim
His desperate, doleful eyes that know not faith;
And he shall hear no chants of cherubim.
xvi.
I was bewitch'd of late! My soul had met
Some fearful doom; and there had dropt a threat,—
A curse belike,—from lips of Atropos.
There had been done a deed of spirit-loss
Which did o'erwhelm me as I paused thereat.
But now 'tis shunn'd; and where a Tremor sat
Now sits a Hope; and where a gulf was seen
Now stands a mount as blest as Ararat.